Mister puts me into the backseat and starts the car: driving, driving, driving, and driving. Sunlight through the trees provides seizures. I tremble under a cloud and spit up crusted & painted yoke.

When we reach our destination I put my hand into the front seat and pull the radio apart. I have no purpose but yet: I lick the knobs, I tongue the controls. I am out of control. I get no reception.

Mister pushes me back and straightens his tie. Stop your messing with technology, he says.

A bundle of soiled magazines sits beside me. Flap caps and hairy flare guns splattering fifty-year-old cheeks into cock-eyed oblivion. It’s like a stag party full of ballistic and pock-marked pancakes and flat cod covered in gravy. There’s several puckered and brown sour-eyes getting a stern talking to by several fingers at once.

Mister struggles to keep composure and from across the street comes Mary skipping in a skirt, no shirt, her pimple-covered flap jacks playing gravity’s game and bruising her jaw. A tooth is loosened, rolls toward the sewer and a Chinese cat bats it around.

In a fury Mister leaves the car and punches Mary in the ribcage and calls her a name I don’t want to repeat. I put my feet through the back window.

Like an urgent letter, I send myself through the windshield, past Mister & Mary and into the diner across the street.

I sit at the counter. The waitress is short, plump, shimmering like a star. Her nose resembles a typewriter. It sniffs.

She hands me a menu and I look it over. It’s mostly seafood. Vampire squid and waffles, spider crab and flaxseed, hammerhead shark with a side order of cinnamon toast.

Mister and Mary walk into the diner. Mister tells me to order the eggs. Who am I to argue?

I order the eggs while the two of them pick lice out of each other’s hair. When it comes time to pay, I take my wallet out but then remember that it is fried pap. The waitress says it’s not a problem. She put is on a plate and serves it to a group of truckers who are all wearing shirts that say: Pancakes Are Not an Option.

The three of us leave and get back into the car. Mister starts driving.

Turn on the radio, Mary says.

We can’t, Mister tells her. He looks at me and gives me a nasty look. For a minute I feel bad about destroying the radio. It was a nice radio.

There’s no ending to our story. Not until the three of us are dead. I guess I could make something up, something clever and witty. But I won't.